The Diary of a Mistress
by WickedAnabella
Summary: Watson has moved out of 221b to be with his second wife, leaving Holmes alone, spiralling into depression and addiction. In desperation to stem his loneliness, Holmes hires a working girl from Whitechapel. This is her story.
1. Chapter 1

Diary of A Mistress

When compelled by my acquaintances to release an account of these experiences, I have always demurred on account of the potential damage which may be visited upon the persons involved by the gossip of London Society.

However, now that the whole thing is done with, I have come to put pen to paper, in the hope that the truth be known and that some things which have been said against a man's honour may now be unsaid. I shall not divulge their names here, since my intention is to silence gossip rather than create it, and for those who do not know to whom I am referring - well, I shall not reveal it.

I was born in the year of our Lord 1881, and Christened at St Anne's church in Whitechapel under my original name of Virtue Mabel Christopherson, which served me well until I re-Christened myself Mab so that my name may not be too ironic. The lore of my childhood had it that our surname, unusual in London, was owing to my paternal grandfather being of Scandinavian birth, but the details of that remained vague until my father's death in the 1890s, when I suppose all chance of certainty was taken with him to the grave. My mother, having more than a hobbyist's interest in gin, was of little consequence to me (and I to her, let me assure you) by the time that these extraordinary events began to occur.

Readers may have seen me referred to in the press by many titles and occupations, but I would like to here speak with no false modesty in calling myself a working mistress. The celebrated author Mr Thackeray has written of Miss Becky Sharp's ascension from orphan servant girl to lady of the manor, through mistress to a lord, and though I do not stretch myself to her heights, I believe that faint comparisons could be made. I have never had the pleasure of a lord, but now that half of London knows what I have had, let me tell you in plain truth how it began, that you might think the better of both of us.

In the autumn of 1902, I was in a house. This house was adorned with nothing but bedrooms, and populated by nothing but young girls and one older one; my Mistress, whose name I shall not give here for reasons which may be obvious. It was a tranquil evening, around the hour of sunset - I was seated on a chaise longue, talking with two other girls who were my particular friends, whilst we awaited clientele. I fancied at the time that I looked rather well in my ringlets and low-cut dress with a bustle and ruffled skirts, but perhaps my standards were lowered by poverty and I did not look so well as I thought. Another girl - whom I did not mention along with the others because she was not a particular friend of mine - called excitedly from the window that a gentleman was approaching our door and he looked rich. We as working girls, both loved and dreaded our clients, but there is an excitement and joviality peculiar to people working in difficult confines, which expressed itself as friendly rivalry between us to win the greatest number of gentleman per night.

We heard our mistress greet him in the hallway - his voice was too low to hear, but their conversation continued for a minute or so. This is perhaps a little unusual, as most visitors to our abode will begin with a single instruction, like "The youngest" or "A blonde". It is not unheard of for men to be particular, but I have found it is not common. When my mistress's voice travelled up the staircase bearing my name, I had the same flutter of anxiety that I had every time. However I gave a false smile to my girlfriends who clapped me silently, and I appeared on the landing.

My first impressions were unremarkable; he was not unlike any other man who might call. Then my mistress said to me, "Mab, this is Mr -." I need not say that I almost fainted with shock.

As soon as she said it, I knew it was him - all of London has seen his likeness in the press. I did not know whether he was here for the usual reason, or because of one of these peculiar stories that he pursues in his profession; and because I knew of his connection to the law, I felt a terrible fear for the first moment upon seeing him. But after that, I perceived that his eyes twinkled at me expectantly, and so I smiled my usual professional smile. I should say at first that he looked anxious rather than pleased to see me, but this is not unheard of. In fact I shall say here unequivocally that I recognised from years of experience that this was his first time in an exchange of this kind. Much has been speculated about this, his proclivity to consort with working girls, so now hear me when I say: I was his first.

I descended the stairs. For the sake of delicacy, I affected not to have heard of him. We did sometimes have gentlemen of strong influence and standing arrive at our quarters, and I had made it a rule for myself not to trouble them with the burden of their reputation: as long as they were with me, they were at a refuge from the outside world.

I smiled my best smile and tried to take him by the hand, as if to pull him longingly into one of our bedrooms, but my mistress apprehended me. I was to go with him, instead.

This did not please me greatly. You may suppose that a great deal of roughness is visited upon women in my profession, making me reluctant to leave the premises where my employer and friends can hear me scream. It was fourteen years since the Ripper walked in Whitechapel, but that was still not enough to erase his shadow from my mind. My smiles for Mr - grew more subdued, but I said I would get my shawl, and so we walked out. I felt the eyes of my friends on my back as we left.


	2. Chapter 2

I have already spoken of my instant recognition of my illustrious client, but I shall take this lull in proceedings - we are only walking now, I assure you - to say that he was somewhat different to his Strand counterpart. He was mostly grey now, at aged forty-eight, and while the strong features caricatured throughout the press were exact, the thinness which they tended to portray as elegance, in person looked rather frail and sickly. I have often read in Dr -'s stories of his nervousness of manner - in my mind, that had meant a quick energy barely suppressed, but in fact it was exactly as described: nervousness. He often trembled slightly, particularly his hands, and he seemed very wary of every little noise and flicker about us. Not that he appeared fearful of course, but his senses were manifestly more active than those of anyone I had met before and altogether he seemed thoroughly odd.

Apart from this, he was genteel in his manner, taking my hand up in his arm and walking in pace with my stride which was much shorter than his. The evening was cooler now, the air cold upon my exposed neck which was flushed with nerves. Truly I had never imagined that the literary hero of my childhood would be a client of services such as mine, and while you may call me hypocritical, I was rather disappointed. I had always imagined Mr - as a man quite without moral fault. Some of my clients I may have a superficial affection towards, but I never forget that we are in the practise of what God does not love: them moreso than me. The Bible forgives those who repent, and I had been forced where I found myself by that ransom that so many orphaned girls are faced with: prostitution or starvation.

I enjoy the mental aspects of my work: I enjoy the observation of a man, altering myself to be his perfect companion with little deductions of my own, little things he may say, other women I may hear him mention as his favourites, what he may lead me to say with his questions. Does he tell me early in our association that he misses his mother? He wants a firm authoritative lover. Does he visit working girls regularly? He wants a lover to take his mind of other pressing matters in his life, so I prattle about matters of little consequence like a weak silly thing while performing the bodily aspects of my trade. It is these bodily aspects which I do not enjoy. However, as I have said, I will not deny that the mental keenness which makes me so good a mistress, is something I admire about myself. I always clung on to the hope that like Becky Sharp I would one day rise through the ranks of Society.

Mr - hailed a cab and we came to that address which I had conjured so many times in my imagination. It was a tall white-stoned building with a black door, where Mr - lived on the first floor. He opened the door himself without waiting for a servant, and asked me to be quiet until we reached his rooms. I surmised that this was so we did not attract the attention of the staff.

Readers must now begin to understand the profundity with which I have been moved during my time with Mr -, because the gaping inconsistencies between him and the _adaptation_ of himself which reaches The Strand, even now leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Let me begin by saying that the flat was a terrible sight. Syringes lay on the table and mantlepiece, stale tobacco stained the air so that it was at first hard to breathe, there were holes in the walls that had clearly been made by bullets, a knife held a bundle of papers to the mantle, stacks of papers and suspicious evil-smelling liquids in glass jars lay everywhere on every surface. I do not say this because I have never seen mess before, but because I was all of a sudden keenly aware that I was stepping into the dominion of a diseased mind. My mistress would never forgive me if I had fled, but I confess it was my first thought. Seen in the surroundings of his habitat, my companion's nervousness and notoriety as an eccentric seemed suddenly dangerous. He turned his bright grey eyes on me and I noted again that he seemed anxious.

"Well, here we are," he said. He gave a smile that seemed designed to put me at ease. "Please sit down. Move that pile of paper. Would you like a drink?"

I said I would drink whatever he would drink. He poured us both a measure of whiskey that I considered rather dangerous, before sinking into an armchair opposite me. He remained silent for a moment while his eyes travelled all over me. I was at that juncture stricken with the worry that he regretted his purchase - this is a fear that often plagues me in a career where youth and beauty is one's bread and butter. I always fear that my client will not find me agreeable when he sees me by gaslight. However Mr - impeached me to tell him about myself.

You need not suppose that I am accustomed to doing that, nor to thinking my clients sincere when they ask. I have a form-answer for questions of this type, designed to protect my anonymity (such as it is) and to present an enticing creature to the man himself. I smiled prettily and spoke thus: "Well, I am twenty-one. I have lived in Whitechapel all my life, I am from a large family. I like to have fun. I like older men. I like cider and strawberries and dancing."

He lit a cigarette and waved out the match. "You have not lived in Whitechapel all your life," he said. A thrill went right through me. This was it, this was the magic he was famous for! "You have spent time on the south coast, where your fortunes were a little better than they are today. You are also not from a large family. I do not entirely believe that you like older men. As to cider, dancing and strawberries, you may like them or not as you please."

"How could you know all that?" I said, amazed.

"Oh it is very easy. Your shawl is unmistakably of French origin, however you purchased it in a pawn shop: it is of a style common when I was young, but it is unlikely you have inherited it from someone, because it has not been much worn: I gather therefore that it has lain somewhere since it was almost new. A young lady with so distinctly a particular type of English accent has likely not spent time abroad, so the most likely place for you to find a French shawl in good condition is the south coast, where exchange between the two nations is at its highest. Your fortunes were good there because your scarf is a treasured possession: it does not go with your dress but still you wear it, and you have not pawned it yourself, meaning that its sentimental value to you is high. You have no close female relations, I believe, because that dress was made for you, that is unmistakable from the tailoring, it is precise. Usually women in your situation share dresses with their sisters or mothers to save on expense, but that dress is uniquely yours, even though it cost you everything you have, which I say because you have no jewellery and only the one shawl. Am I correct?"

"Unfailingly."

He nodded, but I thought he looked quietly pleased. "As to your claim that you enjoy the company of older men - I saw that you were a little phased when you saw me. For that I am sorry. I hope however, to give you a better night than you would have had at the hands of someone else."

"Sir," I said, "you are a little mistaken on that point. I was not disappointed to see you, I was rather taken aback - that is to say, surprised," I added hurriedly, "and I thought it best to be discrete in case you did not want to be recognised."

He smiled at that, but it was a smile tinged with some other emotion. "You know me then?"

"As well as one can know a person one has never met."

This answer seemed to please him. "I am afraid I shall disappoint you," he said. "For I am not at all like the man in the stories."

I ought to say here that in these early hours of our acquaintance, sincerity was not my intention. My intention in these scenes is always to find what will give the man pleasure and square myself with that. The sad way he spoke of his fictional alter prompted me to say lots of things about how I was surprised how gentle his manner was, how kind his eyes, not at all like the thinking machine described by Dr -, and how I was sure that he was a very tender, sympathetic gentleman after all; that I was sorry if I had faltered when I first saw him, but now I was sure that we would enjoy each other's company very much.

I realised quite soon after that he was not taken in by me. Indeed, he poured himself another drink and said "I had thought you rather more sincere than that, Mab."

Here I accepted that I was dealing with a sharper intellect than I was used to being engaged in a seduction with. I did not yet succumb to actual sincerity, but decided to frame myself as an innocent. I said, with an air of resignation, "I am trying to give you what you want, Mr -. I am sorry if I have misjudged it."

"What I want," he said, "is another person in the room. As you have doubtless read, along with the rest of the Empire, I am a man with neither friends nor charm to the fair sex." He rested his gaze on me. "I am terribly lonely. I have not brought you here to flatter me with words about how handsome you find a man of nearly fifty, I have brought you here so that I might feel there is another presence here beside me." There was something so wintry in his voice as he said these words that I felt awfully sorry for him. I could not speak, for I feared that if he saw my pity towards him, he would be embarrassed.


End file.
